


Fallen and Rise

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Drug Addiction, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prostitution, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:23:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little hurt comforty thing, preWar Drift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fallen

Drift felt the Duobot’s hand, a hard pressure around his helm, pulling his head up and back. He had no choice but to follow the move, arching his spinal struts, tipping the angle of his valve as the mech behind him thrust in. He was already at that wild, rough pace of a mech nearing overload.  Drift felt a moment of relief that he’d been smart enough to pop a lube tab before he’d hit the streets: this one, and his twin, didn’t seem to care much for foreplay. 

Not that he was normally paid for that. Foreplay was for mechs who were allowed to have feelings, withhold consent. He gave both those up the klik he drew the triwave symbol on his chassis.

This was what he was paid for: to bear the rougher thrusts, the slightly sour tang of inebriation, the vulgar language to match.

“Tight little thing, aren’t you?” the red mech huffed, adjusting his fingertips on Drift’s helm.  “Could face you all day with a sweet valve like this.” 

Not even close, Drift thought. He knew, he could feel, how close the other was. It was something you learned from experience, and boredom, trying to count how much longer it was going to last.  This one, not long. Especially not with the Duobot’s twin sitting in the corner, his optics bright and glistening.

“Better not, Shock,” the twin said. “Not going to wait all night.”

Drift would have said something, about charging more, if Shock hadn’t taken that moment to overload, his spike suddenly flooding Drift’s valve with hot fluid, giving a guttural cry. 

The palm tightened on his helm, then released, and Drift let his spine relax, even as his valve rippled and quivered along the still throbbing spike. Fluid seeped from his valve’s rim, tracing two or three hot lines down the backs of his thighs.  Drift wiggled forward, to unseat the spike, but Shock’s hand hooked his hip. 

“Heh.”  Shock pushed in one last time, before withdrawing, in a long slow pull, “that was just round one.”

Beside him, the blue mech stood up, his hand sliding over his interface hatch.  “He was just warming you up for me,” the blue one said, stepping behind Drift, as he tried to stand, kicking one ankle farther apart.  Drift felt a hot line of transfluid leaking down his thigh.

“Prepping your kink, more like it, Ore.” Shock’s hand cupped Drift’s helm as he stepped around, thumb riding up the finial. Drift scowled. He hated being touched like that, intimate, as if he had a right.  Drift sold his valve, his mouth, occasionally his spike. Some part of him, he felt, should be unsellable. “Hey now,” Shock said, bending down. “Don’t think I’m done with you.” He laughed. “As a matter of fact, don’t think. It’s not your strong suit.”

Drift wished he couldn’t think right now, his mind scrapingly hungry for a circuit booster—something to take all this away, replace the sensation of the new spike sliding in his valve, cool against the friction-heated mesh, and the salt tang of lubricant and transfluid on Shock’s spike, hovering in a vulgar hint in front of Drift’s face.

He didn’t want to. He really didn’t want to.  He’d gotten his hopes up when they’d agreed to a room in a ro-tel, thinking he could lie on a berth, and try to let himself go numb.  But all they’d wanted was the chair, pulling it out just enough to bend Drift over it.

He should know better: never get your hopes up.  He parted his lips, mouth curling in a grimace of disgust.  Not that that mattered to Shock: he got what he wanted, the open mouth, sliding his spike slowly along Drift’s glossa, as though trying to get as much of their commingled fluids across the glossa’s surface.  The hand gripped his finial like a handle, hips tipping closer, until Drift could smell the musk of the nucleon dust settled in the chinks and seams of his armor.  He could feel Shock’s gratified chuckle, as easily as he could Ore’s hands clamped over his hips, settling in, to brace him in position.

He barely had a chance to steady himself, close his optics as if shutting off visual feed made it go away, before Ore began ramming into his valve, the hard, brutal thrusts of someone focused entirely on his own overload, who enjoyed the power of hurting another.  Drift tried not to let it show, sinking his heels into the floor, hiding his body’s reflex to wince, to pull away.  It was a petty resistance, to try to steal from Ore that one pleasure. 

But petty was all he was, sometimes, the two of them sawing against him, taking each other through him, spikes rising together, impaling him to the point of pain, each feeding on each other, both reveling in how they used him, tore him down.  Ore gave a series of grunts, low and guttural, in tempo with his thrusts, while Shock, kept up a murmuring narration, using words as little gibes of humiliation, little lashes of degradation.

He nearly gagged as Shock overloaded, the burst of fluid at just the right spot where he couldn’t stop it from sliding down his throat. His body jolted in revulsion, just as Ore reached his climax, timed so closely that Drift hated that he had the capacity to know that it was precisely his body’s involuntary disgust that set Ore off.

A long moment of nothing—not nothing enough for Drift—filled only with the buzz of their cooling fans.  He could feel their built-up heat in their hands on him, the slide of transfluid down his throat, slicking his valve.

They moved, as one, as though on some secret count, unsheathing in a practiced, hard jerk. Drift had to brace himself, grabbing at the chair as his knee servos buckled. 

“Done?” Shock asked.

“Done,” his companion said, voice thick and sated.  “Still have a quarter cycle.” 

“Eh,” Shock said, leaning into the tiny maintenance facility, tugging out a drab grey cleansing rag to swab off his spike, tossing another to Ore, “I’m kinda done with him.”

“Me too,” Ore said, and Drift felt the wet slap of a filthy rag against his thigh. 

 “Hey, quarter cycle’s on us,” he said. “Consider it a tip.” Shock gave a chuckle, tossing his own rag down, staining Drift’s armor with transfluid and lubricant. 

[***]

The circuit booster lay heavy in his hand, comforting and promising. It was oblivion at the end of two little electrum prongs. He could have gotten a better deal on it, haggled down more, but he needed it, and Shifter knew it. 

It didn’t matter. What was a few extra credits for the release this brought?

He could barely wait, and only the knowledge that if he did it where Shifter could find it, he’d come round to the larger mech taking his paralyzed frame kept him moving, the prey’s zigzagging path, defying pursuit, deeper into the warren of the gutters.

Here, he thought, finally. A tiny alcove, barely big enough to fit him, low enough he had to kneel to get in. Perfect. As safe as you could be while out of your body on a circuit boost.

Drift could barely position himself, his hand nearly shaking with excitement, squeezing at the booster as though he’d rather die than lose it.  It seemed like the whole world was trying to pry it from his hand, deny him the reward he’d earned.

He hissed, air venting between his dentae carrying the last vile whiff of Shock’s spike. Angry. He was always angry these days, like his spark was boiling, had boiled whatever softness in him dry.

This was his only relief, his only release.  A blessed break from reality, a blessed absence from the miserable shell and more miserable life of a vagrant buymech. 

He lifted it up, almost with reverence.  Who needed money or jewels? What could be more precious or rare than this promised oblivion, this bliss of annihilation?

Nothing.

He watched the sallow light from the alley outside gleam dully over the rounded shape, just before he drove it home. He felt the sharp shock, white electric, brighter than any light he’d ever actually seen. Current poured through his body, a cleansing fire, blasting him free from memory, from sensation, from everything.

Interfacing had nothing on this.


	2. Rise

Impactor rolled his optics, with a huff. “Not even one fraggin’ cycle, I swear.” 

“I won’t be long. I just saw something down here.” Megatron turned down the dark alley, drawn by the memory of flashes of light.  His optics—miner’s optics, with high-band lowlight—found no obstacle, easily reading the piles of trash, the warped bulkheads of the walls. 

“Saw nothing,” Impactor said, waiting by the mouth of the alley for a few kliks before giving another eloquent roll of the optics and following him down. 

To where Megatron had stopped before the sprawled body of a small grounder.  Impactor could see the last fitful sparks of the circuit booster, one prong dislodged from the stained white helm.  He gave a grunt of disgust. “Like I said, nothing.” 

“It’s a mech,” Megatron said, in that tone that almost dared Impactor to argue.

And Impactor would have argued, if the call of engex hadn’t been loud in his audials. Their first day of leave, and he was damned if he was going to end it stone cold sober.

“Syk head,” Impactor said, his only correction.  “Junker. Don’t you go around thinking he’s a victim. One mech shoved that thing in his head and it was him.”

Megatron dropped to one knee, plucking the circuit booster from the helm.  He looked at it for a moment, a little blue spark feebly glimmering between the two prongs.  He made a grunt of distaste before crushing it.

The mech on the ground made a whining sound, hand, then shoulder, seemed to twitch.  “Is he going to be all right?”

Impactor snorted impatiently, scuffing one foot on the gritty ground. “Fine. Or not. Who cares? He doesn’t.”  Seen enough to know.  How the frag Megatron hadn’t, yet, was one of the deepest mysteries of Impactor’s world.

Megatron looked up, orange red optics glowing in the darkness. “He’s a mech. He could die out here.”

“Wouldn’t that be a fraggin’ loss to the universe?” Impactor retorted.

Megatron shrugged him off, bending down over the mech. “We can at least take him to the clinic we passed.”

“On whose shanix?”

“It’s emergent. They have to see him.”

Oh right. Because Megatron knew the law, and Megatron was naïve enough to think everyone—slag, anyone—actually followed the law.

Megatron moved to scoop the mech, talking to him, murmuring some slag. Probably poetry. 

“Gaaaaaah!”  The mech seemed to roar to life at the touch, one foot finding his abdominal plating, shoving with all his weak strength, which only managed to push the grounder’s backstruts across the dirty ground. 

Impactor burst out laughing at the sight—not just the junk’s pitiful little flailing but the open-mouthed shock on Megatron’s face. What’d he expect? Gratitude? 

Frag. One day the world was going to teach Megatron some lessons about reality.

The mech scrambled to his feet, or tried to, swinging one arm at Megatron’s face, then another. “Ge’back.  Yuv enough.” 

For the first time, a light of uncertainty in Megatron’s optics, as he cast a look over at Impactor.  Yeah? Well, that’s how junks were. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Megatron said, in that reasonable tone of his.  Impactor hated that tone. He’d sort of planned on not hearing that at all tonight. And if he allowed himself to plan further, he’d had definite aims toward hearing that better voice of Megatron’s: muffled cries of ecstasy.

He had a feeling those aims were firing wide.  “Fraggin’ idiot.” Even Impactor couldn’t decide if he meant the junk, Megatron, or himself.

The junker whirled, staggered back, his own limbs still fighting his control. It would be laughable if Impactor had his sense of humor lubricated with a little engex. Instead it was just pathetic. “Done.  Got wha you pai’ for, Shockkkkk,” the mech slurred. 

“Wouldn’t pay you to do anything but go away,” Impactor said. 

“Shock,” Megatron said. “He said Shock.”

“Good for him, making words and all.”

“Impactor.” An admonishing look, before he turned back to the wobbling mech. “Shock.  And his twin.”

A loose nod, the optics whirring to focus. “Time’s up. Done.”  He took another step back—at least not swinging this time—and stumbled on a pavement crack, crashing on his aft in a pile of limbs.

Impactor shrugged at Megatron’s pointed look. “We’re here to drink, remember? We’re here because you’re buying.”  Or they were close at least: he could swear he had seen the bright neons of the bar’s sign just up the road.  Before Softspark here saw ‘something’.  Really. Spend so much time in the mine and in his head that the real world seemed to just boggle him.

Megatron shifted his weight, one hand to his secured-storage.

No.  He wasn’t.

He was. He held out a credit chit—his credit chit with his entire decacycle’s pay on it. No. Don’t fraggin’ trust me with this, you idiot, Impactor thought.

“I’m buying,” Megatron said, pressing it into his hand.

He knew what this meant. Frag. “Didn’t come here to drink alone,” he said, sourly, even as his hand closed over it.

“I’ll catch up.”

Right. Both of them knew better.  Impactor sighed. “Fine.” Megatron didn’t often dig in his heels, but when he did, he was unmovable.  He turned, scraping his drill against the wall till it cast spark, little stars that birthed and died in the filthy darkness.

[***]

Impactor would kill him. Or threaten to.  Or threaten to threaten to for this, Megatron thought, bending to scoop up the fallen mech.  Maybe he had done this to himself. That didn’t mean he wasn’t a victim. 

The hands swatted him off. “I got it.” The mech clambered to his feet, clinging to the wall and ignoring, pointedly, Megatron’s outstretched hand.  He rubbed his helm, optics dim.

“There’s a clinic up the road.”

The mech shook his head, and then tipped back against the wall, as the movement sent his visual sensors lurching.

Megatron frowned, and then stepped forward, slinging the smaller mech easily up off the ground. He protested, a flail of limbs, a scratchy yell, but neither presented serious impediment. Megatron was used to the mines, and moving the heavy equipment, and, more than once, carting the bodies of the injured. One mech was barely any weight at all. 

“Let go of me!”

“And if I don’t?”  Because he had no intention of it. He’d seen enough mechs on the verge of burnout to know he couldn’t leave the other mech here.  He and Impactor were benign—well, relatively—but others, he knew, wouldn’t be.

The mech squirmed, but gave it up after a moment as useless and ridiculous looking. It was. Both. “Look. Not the clinic. I’m fine.” 

“You can’t even stand up.”  

“I’ll _be_ fine,” the mech corrected. “Done it before.” The optics were still unfocussed, but something like a scowl was forming on the face. It looked habitual.

“Listen.” Megatron gave him a little shake. “My friend and I could have killed you if we wanted.  Robbed you.”

“Don’t have anything worth stealing,” the mech mumbled.

Another shake of the mech’s  head. Megatron refused to even think of him as a junker, despite what Impactor might say. “Not the point. Doesn’t your life matter to you at least?”

A vague shake of the head, the mouth set in something that almost verged on a pout.

“Well,” Megatron said, with an easy shrug that resettled the smaller mech’s weight against his chassis, “it does to me.”

“Don’t fragging know me,” the mech said. He tensed his servos, almost casually, coiling, ready to move.  It was almost funny: he thought he was being clever.

“You could start by telling me your name,” Megatron said, reasonably. He began walking, letting his weight fall a little heavily on each stride, just enough to rattle the smaller mech.

“Could,” the mech said, before quashing his lip plates together.

Ah. Like that.  Well then. 

Megatron clamped his arms tighter around the mech, just as he tried to spring away, body squirming in the rough not-really-embrace.

“Let me….go!”  The mech’s voice was muffled against Megatron’s flat chestplate. 

“Later.” 

The squirming got more frantic as he moved and then the mech went limp. “I have a warrant.”  An admission and a surrender, both.

By one, Megatron could guess, he probably meant at least a half-dozen.  Reason enough why a clinic would be a bad place to go.  He shifted direction, heading back toward the hostel where he and Impactor had rented a room. Funny how the mech wouldn’t trust him with his name but would with that.  Funny and…something else. Something more.  There was a mystery here he wanted to pry into. 

He let the mech down at the door of the hostel, keeping hold of one wrist—some small gesture toward dignity, if not free will, before he dragged the mech in front of the main desk.

The clerk looked up, caught sight of the smeared triwave on the buymech’s chassis. “Cost five shanix extra.”

Megatron stopped, the mech behind him nearly colliding into him. “Why?”

The desk clerk jerked his chin at the buymech. “Have to sanitize the room now.”

A growl of engines behind him.  Megatron cocked his helm, something like a dark amusement over his face. “We’ll make sure you have to do a _very_ thorough job, then,” he said, before shrugging, and moving to the battered staircase.  He knew how to handle that sort of petty official: they ran into them all the time in the mines, the kinds who wanted to dock your pay if you showed up two kliks late for payroll, the kind who insisted upon obsequious courtesy, simply because the power of money passed through their hands.

The buymech resisted, but let himself be dragged along, to the third doorway down the corridor, which Megatron unlocked with a quick wave of the magnode. He moved to hit the lights, the fizzling gas casting an amber glow over the room, turning the shadows into soft petals of darkness.

The mech stared at him from under his helm’s rim, as though thinking of charging him, bull-headed, before moving to one of the berths, flopping himself on his back, thighs spread.  Even in the dim light, Megatron could see the faint silver of poorly-wiped-away fluid on the thighs.  The mech caught his gaze, flicking open his interface hatch. “Right,” he said, his voice businesslike and alert for the first time. “Get it over with.”

Megatron bridled.  “That’s not why I brought you here.”

“Right.” A wide optic roll. “You admitted it downstairs.” The mouth twitched. “Besides. Don’t think I’m dumb enough to believe you fraggin’ brought me here for nothing.”

Megatron felt a stir of anger. “I brought you here,” he said, sharply, “because you wouldn’t go to the clinic and for Primus’s sake someone has to keep an optic on you.”

The hatch snapped closed, the mech swinging his legs around to sit up. “How kind of you,” he said, acidly.

“How stupid of you,” Megatron retorted, still nettled, “that you can’t see when someone’s trying to be nice to you.”

“Nice,” the mech snapped. “Is that what you think it is.” 

“What else would you call it?” He was beginning to think Impactor was right: that he was just an idealist bound to be taken advantage of, a fool bound for hurt. 

“To make yourself feel good and smart and virtuous. Prove that you’re better than me.”

“I…,” the words died in his vocalizer, as though broken up by the thin resonance of truth.  He couldn’t refute it, not entirely. He found himself frowning back, as though this were now a contest of wills. “Maybe I am better than you,” he said, challenging. “But not because I have a job, or credits.”

The mech scowled, sullen, but he continued his side of this glare-contest. “Then what?”

“Because I give scrap about something other than me.” The words could have sounded angry, but didn’t, the little tongues of anger licking together into a dry, dark humor.

“Good for you,” the mech retorted.

“Is it?”  He folded his arms over his chassis.

“Why you even care, huh? Why me?” An angry shrug, followed by an angry gesture at the smeary triwave symbol.  “Just another buymech, right? Just another syker.” He pushed to his feet. “You don’t know me, anything about me!” He seemed torn between making a break for the door and taking a swing at Megatron. 

Megatron didn’t know what he’d do if the mech did the first: the second, though, would end in laughter. He’d stopped punches of larger mechs. 

The mech moved, opting for the swing, driven by some spirit that overrode common sense. Megatron could almost admire that. 

Not his punch, though—it was wild and wide, a mech who fought just long enough to find space to get away, not the strike of a mech standing his ground.

He caught the fist, taking the mech’s arm with it in a follow through that twisted it up and over the other’s shoulder, till it strained the actuators, spinning the mech around.  “No,” he said, quietly, bending down, mouth near the other’s audio. “I don’t know anything about you. But whose fault is that?”

He could feel the shock of pain—not new, but still potent—quiver through the other’s frame, and he could hear the sudden sound, almost like a whimper.  The hand in his relaxed, suddenly, no longer fighting. “…Drift,” the mech said. “My name’s Drift.”

He twisted the wrist, one last little tweak of pain, until Drift winced, before releasing it. “There’s a start.” 

Drift turned, rubbing his sore shoulder, and he tried to meet Megatron’s gaze with the same glower, but there was something different like a tectonic plate, shifting beneath them both, as they both, suddenly, saw each other as they were: good and bad, wounded and wanting, intensely, achingly vulnerable.

And neither looked away.


End file.
